Holding on
by FictionWriter09
Summary: The revelation strikes a blow harder and deeper than any sword. She was dying, though the doctor hadn't put it in those exact words, the look in his eyes said it all. If he had to scour every apothecary in Paris or pay every doctor so be it. He would find a cure.


**Disclaimer: The Three Musketeers and it's contents are property of Alexandre of Dumas. I'm just playing with them ;)**

 **This was Largely based on the tenth plague scene from Cecil B Demille's The Ten Commandments (1956) between Yul Brenner and Anne Baxter. S** **et in my AU Paths we choose universe, featuring the daughter of Athos and Milady.**

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The revelation strikes a blow harder and deeper than any sword. She was dying, though the doctor hadn't put it in those exact words, the look in his eyes said it all. Unless a cure was found his daughter was going to die.

That's why she'd done it. Left La Fére, and returned to Gascony before coming to Paris. She knew her chances, and wanted to say goodbye should the worse come to pass. She hadn't said as much, wasn't able too. But it was now blatantly clear, settling like a stone in the heavy silence. The only sound in the house coming from Aramis in the corner, praying reverently under his breath as Porthos returned with a bottle of wine, most likely procured from the captain.

"She wasn't wearing a corset." D'artagnan speaks as Porthos hands him a glass, though he doesn't turn from the window.

"What?" Though he accepts a cup he does not drink, as much as he wants and needs to he knows he cannot. For it will do no good nor will it drown the truth this time. So instead he focuses on what's at hand.

"When she first arrived at the Garrison," D'artagnan runs a hand through his hair as he elaborates. Recalling how he had embraced his sister, teasing her for the tightness of her corset. Only now he realized there was no padding, no lacing. "She's lost so much weight."

He nods glancing down at his cup. 'to hell with it all' and swallows it back. Slamming it on the table, Porthos presses a hand on his shoulder as he climbs the stairs. The door is ajar as he crosses the hall and he pauses in it's frame seeing but not quiet believing. He'd sent D'artagnan to fetch her and from the moment she'd arrived. Milady...no Anne, -he thinks as he watches the woman before him; is a mixture of who his wife was and who she is. She had taken charge pushing past even him to reach their daughter's bedside, crystal blue eyes fixing the doctor with a cool look demanding answers as to why their daughter had abruptly broken into a coughing fit before falling unconscious. But as he looks at her now, -no one had dared challenge her to move, he sees beyond the mask gentle hands wiping Régine's fevered brow, as she whispers words of comfort. As if feeling the weight of his gaze she turns in his direction though she doesn't speak.

She doesn't need too, in her eyes he sees the same fear and desperation he saw all those years ago on that fateful spring day. And he wonders briefly if this is all his fault, if, had he just listened to her, things would be different. She wouldn't guard herself behind a mask only he could read, while the mantle of a musketeer would not weigh on his shoulders. But more importantly they'd have more time with Régine, years instead of days and they wouldn't have missed all those milestones, her first steps, her first words, watching her run across the fields of La Fére. Perhaps if he had listened, she never would have fallen ill in the first place. If...No he realizes he can't guarantee if anything could change the outcome of that day or his daughter's fate.

"How is she?"

"Resting." Milady states as he settles himself across from her, gingerly grasping Régine's hand, suppressing a flinch at how small and boney it is.

"We may both be damned for what we've done but it shouldn't be her price to pay."

"She will not die." clear eyes pierce his as she seethes, a lioness ready to defend her cub. He bows his head with a heavy exhale letting the silence fall between them. It's broken when Régine shifts, a soft groan escaping her lips though she does not wake even as he rubs soothing circles on the back of her too small hand.

If he had to scour every apothecary in Paris or pay every doctor so be it. He would find a cure.

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 **Author's Note: I'm back :) After long over due break and writer's block I have returned. A big thank you to LadyWallace for beta-ing and putting up with me this entire time. As always enjoy.**


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